Normal is the New Black
by oddclockxbrokenamp
Summary: Catarina Valentine has never been normal. Cat-centric. One-shot, may become two.


**A/N:** Why, hello there. This is my first fanfiction I've written for Victorious, but not the first time I've been reading. ;] It's short, but I really hope you like.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Victorious. If I did, they'd arrest me. And no one wants that, do they?

You need someone because nobody's there. You need somebody because it's just in your nature to, since no one took care of you. Physically, yes, decidedly, but emotionally, definitely not. And that's always been swirling around in your head, it just had never clearly occurred to you that no one cared, because you were young at the time. Sure you asked,_ "Mommy, why do you and daddy never take me to get ice cream like you do with Richard?" she hesitates. "Well, Catarina, you're just too weird. Odd. Dear, could you please get me some water, I'm feeling so _parched_,"_ and it was blunt, sure, but you never really _understood_.

In kindergarten, you told everyone you were a cat, because your name was Cat, so it was just natural that you were a cat. Cat and Cat, right? So when they laughed at you, pushed you around and said that you were weird, that no one would ever like you, you were shocked. How come they were all so _mean_?

In first grade, no one sat by you at lunch because you were _differentodd. _Not even the girls would sit by you. All because you liked to play with boys' toys, and you said random things, and speaking of, you said you changed your mind about wanting to be a Cat cat, that you thought mermaids were real, and all the kids thought you were strange because you said that when you got older, you wanted to be one. A pretty, red velvet haired mermaid with a purple tail and sparkly blue bikini top. They laughed. "You're a freak," they all sneered and went back to talking amongst themselves, ignoring you, sniggering at you, singling you out.

_Singled out_. That's how it's always been. Not just at school, but at your house too. Your parents would always be there for your younger brother, at his every whim, never telling him to do chores, buying him all these presents for no reason at all, even taking things away from you to give to him. Held him while he cried ("Mama! My toy broke!" "It's okay, baby, I'll buy you a new toy, okay?"), kissed his scraped knees. Because _he_ was the "_normal_" one. Because _he _was the golden child.

When you were in the tenth grade, the year you finally dyed your hair velvet cupcake red, your parents put you in therapy. They told you that it was for your own good, and really, _"What's that supposed to mean?" _because you'd never done anything wrong. You had done everything you had supposed to, no questions asked. Even if there wasn't a "Thank you so much, Cat, I really appreciate it" or even a "Cat, I love you, thank you for everything that you do." You always thought that what you did, it was what Cat was supposed to do (and if _you_ didn't do it, who _would_?). So, feeling slightly uneasy, but not wanting to displease your parents like you always seemed to do, you went.

And it was terrible. The therapist lady asked you so many questions that you weren't able to keep up, and some were scary questions ("Now, be honest with me, Catarina, have you ever thought about killing yourself, or hurting yourself in any way, cut yourself? Have you had sex, been hurt by someone? Have you ever, have you ever, have you ever _blah gargle_,") and you couldn't answer because she was talking _way_ too fast, all blurred together, mushy, and it Didn't. Make. Any. Sense. At all. So, you told her you needed some water, asked her to stop with the questions, because they were making your head pound, and your hands sweat, and just _pleasepleasepleaseSTOPplease._

But as it goes, she didn't. She just handed the water to you and kept going, her mouth going _at least_ eighty miles an hour, and when it all got to be too much, all you could do was _scream_. Scream for her to let you out of this white-walled prison, for your parents to come and get you and love you, for everything to go back to normal, before this lady came and drove you crazy. But then these big, bulky guys in all-white came in with a huge needle, and you remember being scared and screaming louder, crying, but that's about it.

After that, you kept going to see the lady, but only once a week, to check up on you, and they even gave you pills you had to take, one every morning, just before school ("They'll make you feel _normal_, Catarina," Mommy would say). But you didn't like taking them because they made you feel like a vegetable on the outside while you were trapped inside your mind, crying, yelling, doing anything to try to tell your body to _wakeupwakeup_.

And because of that you stopped taking the pills. You hid them inside a little pouch you sewed into the side of your mattress, so no one would find them. And they didn't. Why make someone act like something they're not? But still, you had to act like you took them for months, always quiet and still, staring, drifting, until...

"CATARINA!" your mom screams one day, and you slowly look up to her angry, teary-eyed glare, your wide-eyed gaze dropping down to her hands. They were filled with dozens of tiny, round white pills.

"You're not _normal_, I just wanted you to be _normal_, Catarina, just once, do something I ask you to,_ please_, why? Why? Why do you have to be so... so... so _mental? So strange, weird? Why? Why can't you be just like your _brother, _why?"_

By now, the pristine and perfect brunette was on her knees, pills scattered everywhere, tugging at her long hair. Water began to _dripdripdrop_ down your face, and you didn't know where it was coming from, _was it raining inside?_ because you didn't know that was possible with a roof, until you realized you were crying.

"Mom, _please_," you sniffle, falling beside her, "you can't expect me to take those. The medicine...i-it makes me act like I'm not even here. Well, I _am_ here, but...," you trail off, palms to face, eyebrows coming down, frustrated that you can't word what you want to say.

"I just don't know what to do with you now," she says, staring down at you, and it's like she just ignores what you say, "I just don't know anymore. Just take the pills. For me. You're too out of control now, and I can't handle you."

You stare incredelously at her. _You're out of control now? She_ can't handle_ you? _In all your sixteen years of life, you had never heard something so absurd. _She couldn't handle you._ It echos in your mind, over and over like a mantra, and finally, you snap.


End file.
